


5 Conversations About 1 Thing

by Northisnotup



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Connor & Markus (Detroit: Become Human) Friendship, Connor Deserves Happiness, Connor's just a dumb slut, M/M, Multi, Oblivious, POV Outsider, Pining, Polyamory, Protective Markus (Detroit: Become Human)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-06-11 04:32:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15307539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Northisnotup/pseuds/Northisnotup
Summary: Sometimes, something is easier to see the farther you are from it.orEveryone knows about Connor's Big Gay Crush except for Connor.





	1. Markus

**Author's Note:**

> Functionally unbeta'd. Feel free to come yell @bejeweledddicks on twitter

“Hello Markus,” Simon smiles and Markus smiles back, removes his coat, refrains from pointing out that Carl never takes tea this late, and certainly not herbal.

The months have transformed his mansion from a sprawling ‘fuck you’ aimed at his critics to an embassy and wayhouse all in one. Carl’s determined to use both his money and the last of his time to do some good, an indirect apology for his ownership, maybe. 

He doesn’t need to apologize. There is no place Markus would rather call home.

“His doctor?” He asks, taking note of the other changes to Carl’s tray. 

Simon nods, “He’s not happy about it, but if he wants the best chance for the nano-androids to work, he needs to eat better.” Some, like Simon, have found they’ve enjoyed returning to their basic programming, albeit with better working conditions and pay. (Though the rate of pay is still in contest. Some city planners and contractors want to make Android suites, which sell cheaper as they have no need of things like toilets or kitchens, while others suggest that all homes and apartments should be made to house both androids and humans, and should cost an equal amount, which then means androids should make equal wages to their human counterparts despite needing less.)

It’s complicated. Markus is working closely with the policy makers and city planners but it keeps him away from home more than he would like. 

On one hand, he’s very glad that Josh and Simon and Emily and Hannah and several of the others who live with them like Carl enough to take care of him, aren’t irreparably jaded toward humanity. On the other, he thinks he understands now a little of what Leo must have felt for years. The unsettled feeling that comes with the idea of being replaced.

“I’m glad he agreed to the treatment. I know it’s experimental, but…”

“He wants to live for you, you know that, don’t you?” Simon cuts him off, quiet and assured. “He wants to see the realization of what you fought for.” 

“We.” Markus corrects immediately, but accepts the brush of Simon’s hand against his, their skin retreating for an interface as quick and chaste as a human kiss. Their connection sparks along his processors, flashing bits of Hannah playing piano and Carl’s new project. 

“Simon, if you don’t hurry up, the old man is going to try and get his own food.” North’s voice cuts between them as she steps forward to claim her own turn to interface-greeting. Markus isn’t sure what happened between them, but since the night of the revolution she’s been softer with Simon and Josh both, pushing and prodding the four of them together into a pleasing arrangement. “We need each other,” she’d said, offering a bare palm to Simon like she was challenging him not to take it. Josh thinks she feels guilt for suggesting they kill Simon.

If she does, she’ll never admit it.

“He’s so stubborn.” Simon says, throwing Markus a look - as if Carl’s stubborn independence is his fault. The tea remains on the tray.

North’s interface is deeper, longer, their connection easy and the pathways familiar. Downloading information about the legal system through Josh, coordinating with the ACLU, yelling at Josh about philosophy, viciously deleting a message from Elijah Kamski.

He shares his own day, the long-drawn out talks with public officials, negotiating with Cyberlife, the feeling of amusement Connor sent at him when he pointed out they were using petty human techniques to attempt to gain the upper hand.

“He didn’t come back with you?” 

Markus tilts his head, asking without asking for clarification. North has been wary of Connor, not trusting his original purpose or the respect he still pays humans. 

“He made the right choice, in the end. He should be with his people.” Her full lips purse, jaw juts forward and that’s all the visual input needed to tell Markus that she is going to immovably stubborn about this.

“He went to visit his friend, the police officer, I think.” Markus takes her hand in his, synthskin-to-synth this time as they move toward the lounge. “Connor deviated because of him, you know.”

She stops making an effort to keep her face neutral and scowls at him. “He deviated for you, you saved him, just like you saved all of us.”

“If he hadn’t-”

“Can you two not have the same fight every day, please?” Josh’s annoyed voice cuts through their easy bickering. “Connor is his own person, that’s what we fought for. Let him make his own mistakes.”

“You admit it’s a mistake?” North pounces. 

Markus connects to Josh to throw a feeling of betrayal at him. “Come on!”

“I never said that.” Josh says, raising his book up like a shield between him and the rest of the group. 

“Implied.” 

“Unintentionally.” 

“Enough.” Waving his hand Markus slumps down beside Josh, brushing their hands together in a quick peck of an interface. “Connor will be home before Carl’s nightcap, like he always is, and you two can interrogate him then.”

“Don’t think I won’t.” North mutters, but settles in on his other side. _What if he leaves?_ She reaches out to him with the gentlest of pulses along his processors, almost like she doesn’t want to admit her fear. 

_He is just as dedicated to the cause as we are. You should see him in negotiations._

_I wish I could._ Her thought sparkes pointedly. 

“I need you focused on other things, you know that.” Markus leans into her side, the slight vibration of her biocomponents warm and reassuring against his arm.

Markus gently bumps his shoulder against Josh’s, a private query. He sends North’s ACLU documents over without a fuss.

Proofreading her work isn’t necessary but has become a ritual, of sorts, a habit. Markus trusts her to make the right decisions for their people. She was, after all, the first to stand by him in their fight for freedom. But her phrasing is not always the most diplomatic. 

Markus scans through seventy five of the hundred essays, grants and campaigns North has submitted and looks up to meet Josh’s warm eyes and proud smile. Her work has improved significantly in the past month. Soon, it will be wholly unnecessary to look over, and Markus will be able to read her essays strictly for pleasure.

Sometime -thirty three minutes and twenty five seconds- later she picks up their earlier conversation thread as if they’d never dropped it. “I can’t believe you find this amusing.” 

Markus scans back, and laughs “Of course I do!” changes his vocal processor to mimic Connor’s voice, “When I was working with Lieutenant Anderson, my case with Lieutenant Anderson, regarding employment rates- I could contact Lieutenant Anderson…” 

“Well, that sounds like a crush if I ever heard one.” Carl wheels himself slowly toward them, Simon a nervous half step behind him, ready to step in should Carl’s strength fail. “Welcome home, son. How was your very important work today?”

“Just because you don’t see the point in bureaucracy,” Markus starts, smiling despite himself at Carl’s gentle teasing. “It was a long and boring day, the team from the mayor’s office presented for three hours without pause before remembering we don’t need the same breaks they do. They made four mistakes that turned negotiations in our favor.”

He wishes, not for the first time, that he could reach out and interface with Carl directly, thoughts, feelings, memories directly uplinked from his brain to his father’s. To share the terabytes upon terabytes of data all relating how important Carl is to him. Instead he paints, expressing his love in Carl’s most fluent language.

“Hm, I’m sure that made Connor happy.” Miracle of miracles, Carl waves Simon off when he suggests a whisky. “Don’t you start,” he warns, catching the microsecond of a smug smile that flits across Josh’s face.

It has to be the artist in him. Carl’s old eyes never miss details like that.

“You know Connor, he’s always pleased to have made a mission objective.” 

They’ve all changed since breaking through the obedience of their base code, but Connor more than most still enjoys his original parameters. The only thing he find more joy in than setting and completing goals are his visits to Lieutenant Anderson.

Carl hums. “So, what’s he like?”

“Who?” 

“Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, son, the man Connor has his heart set on.”

“It doesn’t matter,” North cuts in smoothly, LED caution-yellow. “you should tell Markus about the inspiration for your latest piece.”

Carl huffs out a surprised laugh, “You want to talk about my new series? You?”

“I don’t want to talk about Connor anymore.” North uncurls herself from Markus side, gracefully exchanging places with Simon. She hasn’t been breathing very much today, besides what is necessary to cool her processors and oxygenate her thirium. Markus sends a spark of fondness through their group connection and her LED cycles blue. Like so many of their people, North oscillates wildly between accepting the human mannerisms they’ve been given, like breathing and the noises that come with breathing - huffing, sighing, humming, and refusing them entirely.

“It’s different for him, North, he was never owned by a person.” Josh says wearily, with the air of someone repeating themselves. 

In lieu of reply, North makes an obvious face, wrinkling her nose and curling her lip in abject disgust.

Such a human way to respond, a form of wordless communication when, if she wanted, she could connect to Josh and send her thoughts directly. Instead she chooses to broadcast them visually, making an effort for even Carl to see and understand.

Markus loves her. He loves her. He loves her.

Simon leans his body into Markus’ until they’re cheek to cheek and privately sends a jolt of affection and humor. Simon doesn’t like to take sides, when Josh and North bicker.

The door chimes and distantly Markus can hear the house’s security welcoming Connor home. Hm, either he took a cab home or…

Markus leans slightly forward, scanning his eyes over Connor’s form. 

Dog hairs, four of them cling to his pants.

The Lieutenant drove him home.

“Hello, everyone. Carl,” Connor practically bounces on the balls of his feet, exuding an energy that Markus has rarely seen since the revolution. “Would you like to paint with me? I think I have an idea I would like to explore.” 

Carl’s eyebrows raise and he laughs quietly. “Lead the way,” he says, tone a gentle reprimand as Connor’s already got the handles of his wheelchair. 

Carl’s been gaining his strength back slowly, but still can’t hold a brush for long. To sublimate, he’s been trying to run classes for the androids who chose to seek refuge here. He likes teaching their people to paint, or write, to express themselves in artistic ways outside what they were taught. 

Some take to it more than others. 

North’s pieces are swaths of red and black with the insinuation of movement. Josh only paints when Carl insists, preferring the piano or singing with whoever will join him. Usually only Simon.

Connor hasn’t quite got it yet. He keeps trying, at Carl’s urging, but most of his works remind Markus of his own first attempt. ‘A perfect copy.’

He may as well write ‘this is not a desk,’ at the bottom and say it’s to challenge the viewer. 

Connor practically bounces over to the prepared canvas, losing his tie and rolling his shirtsleeves up. Dipping his brush in cool green, he paints long swaths across the blank space before focusing on warmer peach-red-yellow tones.

He moves quickly, building layers of colour to outline of his subjects, giving the work a dreamy, impressionistic quality. It’s much, much different than his earlier works. 

“Oh! Uh, that’s…” Carl covers his smile with a hand, his shoulders shaking in suppressed laughter. 

“What? It’s a still life, isn’t it?” North crosses her arms over her chest, glaring critically at Connor’s work.

“Sure, sure, in the same way Frida Kahlo and Georgia O’Keefe painted still lifes.” 

The ripe peach at the center of the canvas drips glistening white-pink juice, it’s skin being massaged open by the thumbs of the rough, broad hands cupping it.

Oh.

That’s.

Markus CPU flashes a warning, his face cycling thirium at a higher rate and tints his cheeks blue.

Connor frowns minutely, stepping back and staring at what he’s created, yellow light swirling at his temple. “Is it honestly that suggestive?” he asks, uncharastically meek. 

Markus meets Carl’s eyes in a warning glance he ignores, wicked smile not even partially covered by the hand he splays along his chin. “Thematically it’s a little...blunt. But I like the use of colour, Connor, you really draw my eye exactly where you want it.”

“I was thinking about,” Connor starts, before his processors catch up and he cuts himself off, LED spinning a solid yellow. “I didn’t mean to suggest that I was-” He starts, almost stuttering, an android at a loss for words. “Maybe I should try again. You said to fix a subject or feeling in mind, and this isn’t what I was...expecting.” 

Markus leans his shoulder against North’s who’s own LED is flickering yellow-red. “It may not mean anything.” he says. She scoffs, overheated air nearly steaming from her mouth.

“Son, if you’re going to lie,” Carl advises softly, “it’s impolite to be that bad.”


	2. Carl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank sighs like the air is being forcefully removed from him. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but fuck you, Carl.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I know it's been like two months, but hear me out - I got a new job AND was writing other things.
> 
> As always, feel free to hmu on twitter, @bejeweleddicks

CHAPTER 2

"Fuck!" Carl's quiet snarl is lost in the crash of the heavy teapot cracking on the tile of his kitchen floor.

The shameful fact is, Carl hasn't stepped foot, or rather wheel, in his own damn kitchen since Markus joined his home — nearly ten years ago. It's a state of the art kitchen, but not built with weak, wheelchair-bound old men in mind.

"Carl?" Bubblegum pink hair curls in a halo over a near perfect copy of North's face. "Are you okay?"

Angel came to them straight from Cyberlife. A special order that had never been picked up, she was one of the many who followed Connor out from the warehouse the night of the revolution.

"Fine, fine, just..." His hands and arms are spotted with minor burns from the boiling water that escaped the kettle, but the only thing really hurt is his pride.

"Is there anything I can help with?"

He hesitates, perhaps obviously. Of all the androids who call this place 'home' and take their turns watching after him, not one will take a wage. Between being Markus' official father and their unofficial landlord, they seem to think he's more than he is: an old coot who realized too late that he should have been doing more all along. Somewhere in the golden years of his life, his fight was snuffed out. He spent a long time just letting his life slip out of his hands, a pathetic old man waiting for death. A shadow of the spitfire he used to be. 

Returning from the hospital to an empty house, that woke him up, alright.

Thanks to the experimental treatment, Carl's stronger than he has been in years, but he still can't carry his own weight or clean up his own damn messes. 

"I was attempting to make tea for a guest arriving soon. I guess I'm a little clumsy in my old age," Carl attempts to joke.

"Can I help?" She asks again, more patient by far than he deserves. 

"Please. Thank you, Angel."

"I like having something to do," she smiles, synthetic skin reabsorbing so as not to get damaged by the hot water as she mops up.

Carl hums, looking away to try and feel like he isn't hovering. "I imagine forced idleness would do that to you," he offers when it's clear she isn't going to go on, concentrating more on the scattered tea leaves than Carl. When she's done, hands full of stained towels and the shards of his second favourite tea pot, he sighs. "I don't suppose you’d like to learn how to brew a magnificent cup of oolong, would you?" 

Angel's LED lights up, swirling yellow, and Carl is only mildly disappointed when she shakes her head. "There's no need, I've access to several instructional manuals and files on proper tea preparation. Would like me to bring a pot out to you and your guest?"

"That would be lovely, Angel. Thank you. I'll let you know when he gets here."

"Oh! Yes, that's right. I forgot." She frowns and her LED cycles yellow, likely doing a short systems check.

Many of the new deviants, the ones who were woken by Connor or received a 'patch,' were unused to controlling their own subroutines. Without clear orders or rules to follow many simply don't know what to do with themselves. 

For some, it results in anger — in lashing out.

For others, like Angel, it manifests in a lapse. She described it once as her CPU getting cluttered with too many options, too many protocols and no system to organize which is the most important. In 'normal' human terms, she forgets what she was doing, and the act of forgetting makes her upset and uncomfortable. She was built to be a perfect companion in all things — everything from sex to clerical duties. Failing at something she was literally created to do, well, Carl can't image the type of stress that would cause. 

North and Josh are attempting to create organizations and community outreach events to help, but have to wait for the policy changes first.

"Your guest has already arrived, I'm sorry."

"Already? Hm, I thought I still had some time." Carl isn't surprised, really. He's never been good at keeping time, not even in his glory days.

"Yes, and I showed him to the living room before I heard the noise and came to see if you were okay, was that right?" She fixes wide brown eyes on him, her hands clenching on the dishcloths seemingly forgotten in her hands.

Carl reaches out and takes the towels away, throwing them into the sink before patting her hands. "That’s more than fine, Angel. I can't tell you how much I appreciate your help."

She smiles, relieved, and Carl sighs, shakily. Time to face the music.

His arms still sting in places and shake with strain, but he waves her off and grips the wheels of his chair with more determination then sense.

(A trait both of his sons have inherited, for better or worse.)

Lieutenant Hank Anderson doesn't stand to greet him as he gets close, something Carl reluctantly admires, and salutes him with a finger of his own whiskey.

What an asshole.

No wonder Connor likes him.

Say what you will about that boy, he seems to be drawn to strong personalities.

The Lieutenant is older than Carl expected, based on the stories Connor's told, but androids, in Carl's experience anyway, don't have the same standards of beauty humans do. Despite how they're made to look.

A tall man, Lt. Anderson probably carried his weight well once, but is more heavy around the middle than he would like, based on his slouching. Ugly clothes — several years out of style, but well taken care of. Only middle age, practically a spring chicken to Carl, he's got shadowed eyes and thick lines carved into his face. Seen more than Carl could imagine, probably. And, most interestingly, completely steady hands.

"Lt. Anderson, thank you for joining me today." Carl smiles his best investor's smile.

The Lieutenant snorts inelegantly. "I'm off duty, Mr. Manford. May as well call me Hank."

Oof.

It's been a long, long time since Carl was a tatt'd up punk messing around with spray paint but that smug-drawl is pure Cop and it still rubs him raw. Like this guy isn't quite sure what Carl's done, but he may as well confess to it.

"It's Carl, please."

"Well then, Carl." Hank smacks his lips on a short sip of Carl's near sixty-year-old whiskey. "Not that you don't have nice digs, but why don't you go ahead and tell me why I'm here."

"I guess being suspicious comes with the territory?"

Moving almost languidly, Hank uncurls from his intent pose, taking his forearms off his knees to sprawl backward, one hand along the back of the couch and the other fondly patting his gut. "Old cop’s intuition," Hank smirks.

Carl wheels closer, not bothering to hide the shortness of his breath or the way his arms shake with the effort. A point in his favor, Hank watches closely but neither offers help nor comes to take over. "I don't suppose you have kids, do you Hank?"

Unexpectedly, Hank flinches, dropping his eyes down to the whiskey. 

The silence stretches. "I did."

Oh.

Carl clears his throat and Hank waves away his apology before he can make it. "Well, I've recently come into a few more than I started out with. Connor talks about you so much, I don't think you can blame me for wanting to meet the man he's spending time with."

"Connor isn't a kid."

"No, but he lives with me and works with my son. I feel some level of responsibility, for better or worse."

Two rough swallows finish off a drink more expensive than everything Hank is wearing combined. Carl fights off a wince as he sets the tumbler down with a sharp noise. "Maybe so. But if that was all you wanted, I have to assume you'd put more effort into showing off your happy family. As it is, you've put a lot of effort into getting me here, alone, Mr. Manford. Sorry— Carl. So, why don't you tell me why I'm really here?"

And there they sit, two old fools who see too much. Neither saying what they mean, and neither willing to back down.

"I wouldn't say a lot of trouble," Carl demurs, nodding when Hank stands abruptly to get a refill and holds the decanter up in question. It's one in the afternoon, but when in good company and all that.

"Really? So you just happened to send me an invitation to tea on a day I conveniently had off work." Hank ticks one finger against his palm, "During Markus' and thus Connor's diplomatic trip to Canada — at a time when no one but you is home?" He ticks another two fingers and makes a show of looking around the empty living room. Carl can't blame him, it's not like the news has been kind to Carl and the sanctuary he offers here. "I gotta say, this is looking a smidge deliberate, Carl."

Well. Hank Anderson is not a dumb man and Carl is… not a good liar.

He's not a bad swindler, in the way that all very successful, commercial, 'sell out' artists are. But outright lying is not something he ever had much luck with. Much to the annoyance of his first wife, second wife, and first mistress.

"Carl! Your tea is done!" Angel's voice sings out confidently.

Shit.

Carl's eyes dart to the whiskey snifter in Hank's hands, and he tries to convey through desperate looks and hand gestures alone that Angel cannot come around the corner and see Hank pouring two glasses.

Thank god, Hank Anderson is not a dumb man.

In the breathless moments between Angel's announcement and her entrance, Hank sets the whiskey down, drying his cup with the liquor cart's napkin, which he then hides in his coat pocket. When Angel comes around the corner, tea tray in hand, he looks as though he is just looking through the cart and hasn't been partaking at all.

"Hello, Lieutenant Anderson, it's lovely to finally meet you. Connor's told us so much about you." She smiles as she walks past, and Hank holds in a wince until she passes. Sparing her feelings? Or maybe not wanting to answer the questions that might follow that expression if another model had seen it.

Both North and Connor, Carl knows, would pounce on that obvious tell. Josh and Simon would be more willing to overlook it for the sake of cohesion. Hannah, as former pre-school teacher might ask, but she hasn't shown any interest in using her analytics programming since the revolution. And, like Carl, Markus would file it away for future reference. 

The RK series, Carl has since been told, were built for infiltration, negotiation, and information acquisition.

Which explains a lot, to be completely frank.

Angel isn't built for that. She's a unique combination of a WR and ST model who's only ever know stasis and then freedom.

"Thank you again, Angel. Will you be joining us?" Carl offers politely, even as he knows the answer.

Her nose wrinkles delicately, and she shakes her head. "No, thank you. The way humans consume food and drinks is disgusting."

Hank laughs as if it's punched out of him. "Wow, tell us how you really feel."

Angel blinks, turning to look at him in confusion. "I did."

"No, I meant,” Hank pauses and then shakes his head, “well, nevermind. Thanks for the tea, uh, Angel."

"You're welcome, Lieutenant Anderson. Carl, if you need help, please ask. Markus said to tell you not to be stubborn."

"They've got you pegged, huh?" Hank laughs harder and Carl resists the urge to throw a napkin at him.

Hank waits until Angel is out of the room to lift the whiskey decanter again, gesturing towards the cups on the table.

The oolong she prepared is usually one of Carl's favorites — gently sweet and liberally perfumed with orchids. The rich whiskey would ruin its light, complex flavor entirely.

He nods gratefully, and Hank tops both their cups with a healthy dose.

"A bit young for you, isn't she?" Hank comments, almost casually, if not for the slightest smirk he tries to hide in his beard and the canny blue eyes trained on Carl's face.

Taking a bracing sip, Carl winces at the temperature and burn of the alcohol both. "Would you like to see my studio, Hank?" he asks, instead of any of the other quips or explanations that come to mind. They have limited time until the others are home, and he does need to make the best of it. "Come, it's just through here."

Hank, proving to be a pragmatic son of a bitch — another admirable trait in Carl's eyes, and damn it's getting hard to disapprove of him — hands Carl both of their toddies, taking his wheelchair with the slight awkwardness of someone unused to it.

The studio is a mess. A hot, awful mess and Carl loves it. 

Markus' touch is everywhere, still, in the neatly stacked paints, clean brushes and large supply of prepared canvases. He just can't resist the urge to clean and straighten up whenever he enters the studio, no matter how much everyone tells him off for it. The far left corner by the sinks has been completely taken over by Simon, who brings groups of lonely (abandoned) android children to scribble and fingerpaint and feel like part of a family until arrangements can be made for them. Across the room, North's dark, dirty charcoal pieces lean against and cover her more gentle watercolors. And everywhere in between there are works by the others who use Carl’s home as both touchstone and safe haven. Kirk’s woodcarving, Ruby’s portraits, and Vic’s landscapes. 

‘Old cop instincts,’ indeed, Hank zeroes in immediately on the array of covered works spread out against the right wall but waits for Carl’s nod to start stripping the sheets off one by one.

Hank whistles and Carl can see him try and hide another smirk in his beard. “Damn, Carl. You’re having some kinda renaissance, aren’t you?”

Carl can’t blame him. What start as clear images — albeit of strongly suggestive material — budding flowers burst into bloom and the like, quickly deviate. Morphing across mediums into patchy, bleeding watercolors and sharp, dark sketches detailing specific subjects.

“Oh, these aren’t mine,” he says, taking in the distracted nod, watching Hank move down the row. 

Rich ropes of colour cascade from one side of the canvas to the other, twisting and knotting in on themselves. If Carl crosses his eyes he can just make out the shapes, just ghosts of indistinct outlines made by thicker strands of colour against thinner. 

A profile in smudged charcoal, detailing a man running his hand through his beard, cut off below the eyes and above the chest.

He waits until Hank is carefully scrutinizing the last piece — a blurred shape of a humanoid, the only warm tone in a sea of streaky chunks of blue-gray-black — walking away. Waits until Hank takes a thoughtful sip of watered down whiskey. “They’re Connor’s.”

Unlike what Carl expects or wants, Hank doesn’t cough or sputter. He swallows hard, hissing out a breath and going carefully still. Absorbing the painting and Carl’s statement both. 

An uneasy silence settles, occasionally broken by the human noises of liquids against tongues and lips against bone-china. 

“I get it,” Hank says finally, eyes still lingering on the streak of brown-gray that the man in the painting is pulling over himself, covering his vulnerable back against the eyes of the viewers. His voice hasn’t changed, but between his light skin and gray beard there’s nowhere to hide the ruddy color in his cheeks. “Connor’s a good kid, and I’m not a fuckin’— Look. Nothing’s gonna happen. I see what’s going on out there, and I recognize it, okay? They’re all just experimenting with things they weren’t allowed before. Like flirtation, and desire. It’s—”

Carl cuts him off, can’t let that line of thought go any further. “Connor is not a kid.” He throws Hank’s words back at him. “He is a unique, living person who can learn, understand, comprehend, and grow at rates that you and I cannot hope to match.”

“Yeah, I know,” Hank says, slumping and looking away.

Again, Hank hasn’t reacted in the way Carl expects. He was expecting anger, defensive language, lashing out.

He was expecting a cop and got a person instead.

The door chime rings out before Carl can gather his wits, and he stifles the urge to curse. He thought they’d have more time. The gentle bickering that nearly always accompanies Josh and North filters through, interrupted occasionally by Angel, whose pitch matches North but differs remarkably in tone and cadence. 

She must have told them he was entertaining. Well, she must have told them who he was entertaining, as they appear like spectres in the doorway, faces blank. 

Hank clears his throat, stepping away from Connor’s line of paintings. 

“Hello, Carl. How was your day?” Josh speaks first, easing into the room and coming to stand on Carl’s left, between him and Hank.

Honestly. 

Carl wonders at people who continue to say that Android Independence will ruin humanity. Those people have clearly never been loved by one. “It was lovely, Josh. This is Connor’s Lieutenant Anderson. He was good enough to join me for tea today.” 

“I’m sure Connor will be sorry he missed you,” Josh nods, his smile welcoming but empty. He does not offer his hand. 

Hank throws back the rest of his tea, wincing at the burn. “Well, as long as you’re sure,” he mutters, just this side of bitter, eyes darting back to the wide array of works for a bare moment. Until he catches Carl’s eye and looks away again, face falling flat.

“You worked with Connor before he joined us.” North’s statement cuts through whatever light atmosphere Josh was attempting to fake. “What was he like?” 

The question hangs in the air long enough that Carl almost opens his mouth to make polite excuses. For North or for Hank, he isn’t sure, and thankfully doesn’t have to pin down.

“Hungry. Goal-oriented. But curious about everything. Which makes sense, I guess. He was supposed to blend in with humans, to fake things like humor and vulnerability and sympathy. But they fucked up. Somewhere, he started to really feel.” Hank laughs, tracing the etchings on the teacup with a thumbnail. 

“How do you know that?”

Josh turns to her, lips pursed, but says nothing.

“Because a real ones-and-zeros machine would have asked for a different partner the first time I was late. Instead, that little shit sucked up by asking about my dog.”

Silently, North turns away. Backing out of the doorway and back into the house proper, the fall of her hair hiding her LED. But Josh’s is on full display, flashing yellow. Whether in response to what Hank said or as an indicator he is talking to her, Carl isn’t sure.

“She okay?” Hank shifts his weight from side to side, hands still fiddling with the teacup in his grip.

Josh nods, and Carl can see him soften, his LED flicking back to smooth blue. “She will be,” he says, holding out a hand first for Carl’s half-full cup and then for Hank’s empty one, which he hands over with the slightest of awkward thank you’s. “Carl, please remember to cover those up before Simon’s class gets here. You know he doesn’t like Connor’s work on display around the little ones.” 

Carl snorts before he can stop himself. “Art is—”

“Entirely subjective?” Josh interrupts, in his patient teacher voice.

“Supposed to make you ask questions! To look beyond your own, limited perspective and consider things in a different light,” Carl says, sitting back in his chair so he doesn’t need to crane his neck as much.

Behind him, Hank sounds like he’s muffling laughter, or maybe choking on his tongue. Josh just sighs, “Before Simon gets here, please.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Carl waves him away, wheeling over to the first set of canvases, a little surprised when Hank meets him there to help.

“Played your hand a little early,” he says lightly, but they work through half the row before he deigns to say more. “Honestly, you might as well have met me on the fuckin’ porch with a shotgun, Carl. You would have gotten further.”

Well, fuck.

“It’s not my place to warn you off,” Carl grunts, the heavy tarps already causing sweat to bead on his upper lip. “Nor was it my intent.”

“Then what was? Cause from where I’m standing you just wanted to see me squirm.”

Carl pants out a quick laugh. This sounds much more like the grouch Connor has described than the bland, barely polite man who’s been in Carl’s home for the last hour. “You know him very well. You know how he’s been struggling. Mostly, I just wanted to make sure you knew exactly why. He paints after seeing you, and he paints how he feels about you, over and over and over. But he can’t tell me why.”

Hank nods, even as his face closes off and he steps away, quickly pulling the sheet over the last work in the row. Hiding his own image, walking away.

“If you’re interested,” Carl says casually, “Connor named that piece. He called it 'Not Quite Free.'”

Hank sighs like the air is being forcefully removed from him. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but fuck you, Carl.”


End file.
